


Magnum Opus

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [19]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Trauma/Kidnapping/Torture, Body mutilation, F/M, Lovers' Reunion, Physical Abuse, Questionable Concept of "Art"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4838624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She will be clean, and pure, and beautiful, and his.  She will be his masterpiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnum Opus

**Author's Note:**

> I know I overloaded with the postings this weekend (understatement of the year)...I was trying to finish this up before Monday and the long-awaited premiere of Season 2 (who else is super excited??). So, here we are: the final segment of "Tiger, Tiger". I thank everyone who has followed this series to the end. It has been very, very fun. Please enjoy this final chapter!

The sun has broken most of the ice; what was previously a frozen river is now a rushing torrent of clear waters, sparkling bright in their haste, a sweet and merry sound amidst the silence weighing heavy throughout the woods. She closes her eyes, lets her senses take it all in, feels the warmth of a bright sun on her skin, and releases a breath as her feet sink beneath the glassy surface. It’s cold, but the cold no longer terrifies or harms her. It embraces her, drawing her inward, deeper, further and further beneath the tide, until she is submerged. The cold revives her, surges life back into her bones. The cold reminds her she is alive. That she has walked through Hell and lived to tell the tale.

With an upwards rush and a burst of air from parted lips, she breaks the surface, a disruption in the natural flow that somehow, someway blends and molds perfectly with the already-erratic current, and slowly steps back to the rocky shore. The rocks here are smooth, gentle against her bare feet; they are slick, and she will need to be careful, but they are a pathway. A gleaming, shimmering pathway leading her home, guiding her gently, urging her along with water soothing her injured soles and its music filling her ears with peace and serenity.

Where the woods end and the city begins, when Nature’s realm dies and Gotham is born, the river disappears beneath the cover of concrete and asphalt. She pauses, just a moment more, before her feet leave the rocks and she steps once more into Gotham’s waiting hands. She is sure the city has been waiting for her, claws open and eager to swallow her back into darkness, but the city will be surprised. The city cannot tame her, or break her, or control her. She will tame this city yet. This city will be her ally, her confidant, her village and her kingdom. Her blood lies within the roots of this city, and it will soon remember as much.

She is not naïve enough to expect a parade or a grand welcome, not now, perhaps not ever. But somewhere above, someone has been waiting for her and greets her with joy and delight. From the pale, clouded sky above, snow begins to fall in soft and elegant shapes. The sun has fallen back, but it still bursts through in shades of white, highlighting grey heavens and illuminating a dreary and ugly scene, transforming it into something beautiful. And she stands, perfectly still, her hair damp and heavy, catching snowflakes within black waves and upon pale skin. It is easy to forget her sufferings; it is even easier to forget that her body is still healing, that she is in need of food, and water, and plenty of rest. It is just incredibly easy to stand here, without a word, and watch the snow fall.

The moments pass by in silence; perhaps she has been here an hour, perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. The snow begins to pile at her feet, haloing her silhouette in white, clutching more insistently at her hair and skin. There are a few clinging to her eyelashes, and some brush gently across her lips as she graces the heavens with a smile, a silent offering of gratitude for this gift.

At some point, she notices a change. There has been no loud disruptive noise, no sudden shift in the weather, nothing that should grab much attention. But there is a change in the air; she feels it settle deep within her bones, stirring within her core, and that’s when she recognizes it, breathes out softly, and turns around.

She smiles; her lip is still split, and there are likely other various cuts and injuries across her mouth, but she smiles and there is no pain. Even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing matters, save the one who has finally come back to her. “You found me again.”

“I’m good at finding people.” His voice is soft, and it sounds terribly hoarse, as though he hasn’t used it much; he looks even worse—sleepless, half-starved, lingering on the knife’s edge between reason and madness—and her heart aches to bring him into her arms, touch every inch of him, and soothe away the exhaustion and fatigue and whatever else he has done to bring himself so low. “Especially those who don’t want to be found.”

“You are wrong on that account, Mr. Zsasz.” She steps forward; each breath clouding like mist on the air. “I did wish to be found. And I knew you would find me.”

Coming closer only puts her fears on grand display: she has never seen him like this. So many in this city declare him half an animal, a monster more than a man, but for the first time, he truly looks it. He looks like a creature beaten mercilessly into the ground, who attacked his captors and left none alive, and now hovers so close to insanity, where nothing matters but satisfying his bloodlust, carving deeper and deeper into his flesh, until he wears the city and every last one of her people.

“My tiger…” she whispers; when she tries to touch his cheek, his hand seizes her wrist, suspending it between them for a moment, eyes burning, staring, examining deep and with frantic need to _see_ , see her, see that she is real and alive. His fingers dig deep, bruising, clenching without mercy. It hurts, but she doesn’t waver. He is on the edge of a knife; one wrong move could have devastating effects.

After a long, tentative moment, his grip slowly relaxes and he guides her hand the remaining distance. The sound that breaks past his lips, when her fingers fit to the shape of his jaw and cheek, when her bare skin is set to his, when his fingers curl around her wrist and press down again to find the steady beat of her pulse, is the sound of a dead man brought back to life.

There is no warning, no hint or suggestion to precede it, but the look in his eyes, glimpsed in the bare seconds before he lurches forward and catches her lips with his, was all she needed. Even if he had taken her by surprise, it wouldn’t have mattered. There is no resistance, no struggle or fight to be had; her lips meet his without qualm and without pause. He is so warm, so wonderfully warm, but she knows the same is not true for her. The kiss doesn’t last long before he breaks it, mouth resting in place, sharing her breath, and his hands delve deep into her hair, then run frantic and unchecked from her throat to shoulders to hands to waist.

“Like kissing a corpse.” He whispers absently, kissing her again, and again, and again, then her forehead, thrice more. “Sweet girl, you’re so cold…” His hands clutch her closer, without space between them, molding her to the firm shapes of his body and burying his face in her hair. She can feel each shuddering exhale against her hairline, down the back of her neck.

“Victor,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around him, hands fitted to his back, “My tiger, what is it? You are shaking.”

“You’re so cold.” He repeats, fingers tangling fiercely within her hair. “Are you even real? Or am I holding a ghost?”

She could offer reassurances with words, sweet whispers and gentle vows to grace his ears. It would be the way of a fairytale romance, when lovers are reunited and both have found each other unharmed. But theirs is not a fairytale. She is no longer the beautiful princess, and he will always be the dragon. His role has never been that of hero, but she hasn’t needed him to be a hero. A dragon can still protect his captured maiden, with tooth and claw and fire in his soul.

“Your ghost was perfect.” She whispers, unwrapping her limbs from his waist and negotiating her way free of his arms; it takes considerable effort, with him expressly reluctant to permit space between them, but she finally earns her freedom and meets his gaze. “She was beautiful, and whole, and without flaws. But she is not real, Victor. _I_ am real.”

Without much regard for the dropping temperatures, or the public venue, she takes the sweater’s hem and drags it overheard; the skirt is next. Anyone could step out and see this, be horrified at either the indecency of it or what she has just uncovered beneath fabric barriers, but her care is not for who may or may not be watching. She keeps her gaze on his face, watching with breath held captive in her lungs as his eyes run slowly over every scar that interrupts what once was pristine, unmarked, flawless flesh. She has never been whole on the inside, but she was on the outside. Now, that has been taken from her, without consent and with such brutality that she nearly quakes at the memory alone.

Victor holds his silence for an agonizing moment, then returns his gaze to hers. “Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“Never.”

The relief is overwhelming, written across his face, blazing deep within his blue eyes, stripping away the burdens and relaxing his posture. The weight of his exhaustion is gone, melted away as though it was never there. This is the man she knows. This is her tiger.

“These mean nothing.” He whispers, running fingertips lightly over a scar at her lower stomach, the set across her left shoulder, the small indent left below her collarbone where a piece of flesh was stolen. “These scars join us, my sweet girl. They bind us together, one and the same, made for each other. But if he had touched you…”

“Please do not even think it.” She begs, clutching his face between her palms. “Never think it again. I am yours, my tiger. I am only yours. I am forever yours. I dragged myself through the pits of Hell to return to you. _I love you_.”

Fire sparks to life in his eyes, and he kisses her, again, again, again…at some point, she registers the feel of fabric wrapped tightly around her—his jacket, shielding her as best it can from the elements and prying eyes—and she lets herself fall securely within its folds and against his body, into the arms that catch her into an embrace, lift her from the snow, and take her back within the city.

***

It was almost enough to convince him, to reaffirm beyond all reasonable doubt, that he had finally lost all grasp on reality. To see a figure so pale, so elegant, so beautiful, standing beneath a snow fall; to be dragged so forcefully into a distant memory when he’d once found a little girl standing in the cold and the snow, a lost soul who had reached out for him and craved his embrace; to recognize her from the first moment her blue eyes caught the light and they glittered in the frame of dark eyelashes… _a ghost_ , his mind had insisted. A ghost, nothing more, and he’d been content with the declaration. If he’d lost the living, breathing version, he could learn to keep the company of spirits. Insanity has this effect: nothing seems absurd, or impossible, or ridiculous. Kissing a ghost seems perfectly normal, because this ghost has her face and her eyes and her smile.

A ghost, and he’d been nearly convinced of it, ready to step off the edge and free-fall into insanity’s waiting arms, until his ghost had ruined the game, refused to simply be his and let madness have its hold. A ghost…but ghosts could not be injured. Ghosts were pure, and whole, and his was not. His, beneath the tattered and blood-soaked clothes, had carried scars. Ugly, hideous things, and his one thought had been fury, and regret, that his sweet girl had endured such crude technique. He could have made them beautiful. He could have made her his perfect canvas, but someone had stolen the chance and ruined it.

But only the scars were ugly. _She_ was beautiful. She was scarred and battered and beaten, but she was _alive_. Cold as ice, cold as death, but still alive.

The water quickly melts the chill on her skin, a heated cascade surrounding her, crashing down in a rush. He watches the droplets play in her hair, across her cheek and eyelashes, run unchecked down her skin, without care for the scars or any damage, touching her as though she still is whole and pure. His hands and fingers follow accordingly, tracing the water paths, reclaiming her body as his, only his, with touch alone. His lips rest firmly at her temple, cheek nestled within soaked strands of ink. His clothes may or may not be salvaged after all of this, but he could care less. Perhaps he should have, before rushing her into the shower and tucking her beneath the hot water, and then catching a short glimpse of her body, nearly naked and pale and perfect, and surrendering to a need to bring her back into his arms, clutch her back to his chest, and mold against her. Join with her, mind and body and soul. Live with her. Die with her. Be reborn with and in her.

***

“Take off your clothes.” She whispers, resting fingertips to his chest. “Let me see you.”

There will be nothing beautiful about what she is going to see; he knows this, thinks to tell her this, but ultimately holds his silence. Making excuses will only inspire her curiosity, and it is far easier to show her rather than tell her. Even so, he can’t quite meet her gaze while unbuttoning and slipping out of his shirt, then his pants, and eventually the rest of his clothes. For the first time, he is ashamed. Not of what he has done, but of the scars. They lack the refinement and deliberate precision from before; they are messy, disorganized, too deep, too long, too short, without any hint of control or grace. His body has turned into a butcher’s block, and he knows it.

“Oh, my tiger,” she breathes; her touch runs slowly from his upper arms to chest, once again, eyes taking it all in with tears brimming at their corners, “what have you done to yourself?”

_What indeed._ There is no real answer, nothing that can completely satisfy or offer proper explanations. But there is one thing he can say, even if it’s spoken little above a whisper and goes against every remaining concept of pride. Though, frankly, he doesn’t have much pride left. Insomnia, insanity, and recklessness have taken care of it. Ripped it apart, mauled and maimed it, and tossed what was left to the wind. There is very little left of him that hasn’t been dismantled and ravaged. It’s humiliating, to be so broken, to know he’s been here before and was left alone by a cruel world. 

But he’s not alone anymore.

“Iris…” his throat locks, constricting and trying to strangle the words, but he forces them out because, for all else that’s been taken from him, determination and ruthless conviction are not among the lost, “…I love you.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting; the traditional script says she’ll burst into tears and throw her arms around him and kiss him and declare her love over and over again. But following the traditional script has never been their strong suite—hers or his—and she’s certainly not crying or beaming or embracing him like a fool. She’s standing perfectly still, her gaze still for the scars, counting silently.

Finally, her eyes lift back to his face and her hands rest flat to his chest. Her gaze has changed. _She_ has changed. She is alive, in ways he previously didn’t realize, and the chill has been stripped from her touch. There is fire in her veins. He wants to fall into the inferno and burn alive. Burn alive, die within the flames, and be reborn. _Tiger, tiger, burning bright…_

“Lay back.” Iris whispers, her hands already guiding him downward, to the bed, while stepping forward. It’s all a very fluid, graceful motion: her hands bringing him flat against the bedcovers, her legs draping over his hips and resting in place there, her fingers leaving his chest to tug at the towel wrapped around her, pulling it free and dropping it to the side. His breath leaves in a low exhale, eyes drinking in the sight without shame. In this light, even the scars look beautiful. _She_ is just too damned beautiful. “Let me love you, my tiger.”

Her love is slow but deliberate, gentle but covetous, tender possession; taking something worthy of shame and recreating it, transforming it, inspiring him to own it without regret because the way it feels to have her touch upon them, each and every one of them, makes them worthy.

His body comes alive once again, revived by her hands, her kiss, her touch, everywhere, everywhere, from his neck to chest to stomach to hips to legs. No inch is left untouched, and some places earn special attention—beneath his jaw, at the pulse; at his chest, where the newest scars are still red and raw, barely healed and exceptionally sensitive; along the ribcage and hips, where his poor attention to physical health is most obvious; and then, inspiring a low sound from him in the process, past his hips. His fingers weave through her hair, tangling deeply within black silk, eyes falling closed, mind and body devoted to nothing else but _feeling_.

After a moment, dismissive of how obscene it may be to not just watch but _want to watch_ , he forces his eyes open, props himself upright on one arm, and looks down. What he sees—the other hand still lost in her hair, the black curls loose and mussed around her face and down her back, her hands resting at his hips with fingertips brushing here and there in meaningless caresses, her mouth on him without ceasing and with hunger, and her eyes meeting his gaze, unashamed, fire smoldering in blue depths—sends a violent burst of arousal crashing through his system. He almost tells her to stop, because it’s too much, but really it’s not enough. He’s not sure anything will be enough. He’s not sure she can touch him fast enough, often enough, and in enough ways that will truly satisfy him.

Apparently, the thought is communicated through his gaze, because Iris suddenly shifts her position, not only moving harder, faster, but keeping her eyes locked on his. That alone makes him ache and burn past the point of coherency; the way his grip tighten in her hair communicates as much, as does the breathless and barely intelligent gasps forcing past his lips.

“ _Iris_ …” he tries to loosen his fingers, before he hurts her, but they won’t cooperate and she doesn’t seem to be in that much pain anyway, “Yes… _yes_. Harder, sweet girl…harder. Don’t…” _Stop? Hold back?_ Does it even matter? “Just like that. _Yes_ …”

She doesn’t stop, even when his body tightens violently and his ability to hold back, to wait and let this drag out, slips from his grasp and he surrenders with a sound that isn’t even halfway human, far more like an animal’s roar, and his mind loses all concept of coherency. He slowly drops back to the mattress, letting the room spin before his eyes for a few moments while he collects his breath and waits for the blood stop rushing through his ears. Iris pulls away from him, the separation leaving him rather cold, missing her heat, but then he finds her leaning over him, black hair slipping over both shoulders, spiraling down in a thick veil around her face and his. The shadows do nothing to blot out her eyes; they still gleam vibrantly, piercing blue suspended on a white canvas.

“I saw fear in your eyes, my tiger.” She whispers. “I saw fear, when you looked upon me and saw all that blood. Did you think in that moment I was truly a ghost? The dead walking?”

Her lips lift, very slowly, but it’s not like any smile he’s ever seen on her face before. It’s far more glorious. “It was not mine.” Her voice lowers and she leans a little closer. He can smell her skin, her natural scent; it’s making his mouth water. “He said he loved me. He said he loved me more than anyone ever could. For that, he had to die.”

“Tell me.” His head is spinning, the room starting to spin again, but he keeps his eyes on her and holds the gaze. “Tell me, Iris. I need to know. Tell me what you did.”

Her hands rest flat to his shoulders, running down both arms slowly, leaving no scar untouched in the process. “I stabbed him.” she whispers. “Several times. And then I stabbed him three more times in the throat. Once, for saying he would protect me. Twice, for saying I was the one, his perfect mate. And the third time, for saying no one could ever love me as he did.”

She slowly leans back, shifting, straddling him again, taking him inside with a soft breath and low purr of satisfaction, and then slowly rocking her hips, a graceful, hypnotic dance above him, around him, against him. “The past week has changed me, Victor, in many ways. But the greatest of these,” her fingers entwine with his, pulling, tugging, bringing him upright, and wrapping his arms around her, fingertips dancing backwards from wrist to shoulder, “was to show me just how deeply, truly, and completely I love you.”

“Iris…”

“You are mine.” She loosely wraps her legs around him, pressing closer. “I am yours. And I need you to promise me—to _swear_ to me—that those who try and part us will pay the price.”

“Iris,”

“And as for those who have already tried, those who tried to take me from you,” her fingers press into his shoulders and run backwards, nails scratching down his shoulder blades to mid-back; he growls, arms tightening around her, hands clutching her closer, “I want them destroyed, Victor. I want them to die screaming.”

“ _Iris_ —”

“I want you to return to me with tooth and claw bloodied.” One hand curls around the back of his neck and brings him even closer; her eyes are smoldering, blazing with fire now, and she is taking him without shame, without control, with frenzied need and violent desire. “And then I will kiss you, _every inch of you_ , and touch you, and hold you, and my body will take you, my eyes watch as you lose yourself in me, and my heart will throb with such fierce delight that you will be able to hear and feel every single beat. _That_ is my love for you, Victor. And those who think it is a meaningless little vow from a bleeding heart, those who think they can take you from me…” her mouth is right there, hovering over, brushing against his, “I will annihilate them myself.”

***

One at the base of the neck. One at the collarbone. Two across the upper right thigh, three across the left, and two each across the inner thighs. Twenty-one across the back, beginning above the shoulder blades and extending down to the lower spine. Thirty, total. They range in size, in depth, in shape, just as they range in location. There was no art or technique to all of this; it’s crude butchery, and makes even his recent work seem like a delicacy.

He spends some time tracing each and every one with careful touches, not wanting to disturb her. She needs her rest. She needs time to heal physically, restore her body to perfect health, and become strong once again. He will handle the emotional and psychological wounds. He’s already glimpsed a couple; he knows there are many, many more lingering beneath the surface. She is a changed woman. She possesses the cunning mind of a serpent, the enduring and free spirit of a wolf, and there is blood in her eyes. She has tasted death, felt the sheer release of ripping someone from this world, and it has finally unleashed the monster. Theirs are the same, his monster and hers; they recognize each other, and they are bound together, one of a kind. This is how it feels to be complete, to be whole. It’s an incredibly pleasant sensation.

“Victor,” she murmurs; he should have known she wasn’t asleep, even after they have exhausted each other for hours and hours, well into the pitch-black of night, “do you love me?”

“Yes.” He kisses her bare shoulder; his fingers glide down to find and capture hers, then bring them to his lips, kissing her knuckle, one by one. She already knows he loves her, but he will happily accommodate her, if she needs to hear the words again, and again, and again. It’s not as terrible to say it, to admit it, as he’d once thought.

“If I asked something of you, would you do it?”

“There is nothing you could want that I won’t give.” He whispers, kissing the tender flesh of palm and wrist. “Ask, and it’s yours.”

She slowly shifts onto her back, watching him for a moment with a soft smile on her lips. Then, cupping his jaw in hand and stroking in the way that makes him purr deeply into her palm, she sighs quietly and meets his gaze. “Make me beautiful again.”

He pauses, kissing her wrist again, twice. “You know what you’re asking of me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but he knows she’ll answer all the same. An answer makes it real, makes it a vow written in ink and sealed in blood.

Her gaze is sharp, serious, and unwavering. “I am asking you to love me.”

At least there’s no question or misunderstanding between them as to what his love entails, and what it means to be loved by him. He’s had concerns for some time now, and perhaps, had she never been stolen from him, his concerns would still be valid. But not anymore. She has awakened, she is free, and she is _his_.

He leaves her on the bed while he redresses, at least enough to be decent, and leaves for the basement, just for a moment. When he returns, she is sitting upright, still naked, but with her hair drawn fully over one shoulder to leave the back exposed; he sets the box down, opens it, and spends a careful moment examining each and every blade with critical eyes. After another moment, he withdraws one. He hasn’t used this one before: a blade built extraordinarily thin, no serration, no curve or unique angle…it almost seems dull and uncommon, but when he lifts it from the velvet and wraps his fingers around the hilt, it thrums to life. It’s been waiting, eagerly, with great anticipation, and now it’s ready.

“I’ll take care of you, Iris.” He whispers, cupping her cheek with one hand, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes holding her gaze. “Always.”

“I know.”

He settles back on the mattress with her, facing her back with mind already calculating, forming images, drawing tentative shapes, then dismissing them, and starting over again, like an artist with his sketchpad. His lips kiss the back of her neck, lingering there for a moment while one hand sweeps through her hair, ensuring there is only a canvas of pale skin before him.

“I need you to relax for me, my love,” he murmurs, sitting upright, eyes sharp, mind laying out the foundations for what will be his magnum opus, his greatest work, the final touches that will make her a living and breathing masterpiece, “because this is going to hurt.”


End file.
